


your courage kindled

by gilligankane



Category: The Haunting of Bly Manor (TV)
Genre: F/M, but 2020 is about doing what you want ammirite?, never have i ever written a story centered entirely around a het couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: They sit there, knees touching, as Owen searches for something to say. He doesn’t remember what comes next, his mind cloudy what he’s supposed to say with what he wants to. She smiles patiently at him, always so patient, and she waits.Enough, he thinks.I’ve waited enough.
Relationships: Hannah Grose/Owen Sharma
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	your courage kindled

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while ago and posted it on tumblr, but I can't stop thinking about them and the grief there and so... here. Have this.

Owen washes the ingredients under cool water and lays them out above his cutting board. Onions, potatoes, carrots. He tests the weight of his knife in his hand. It feels familiar, like sinking into a pleasant memory. 

He gets to work. Peel the potatoes, cut them into quarters, put them in a pot to boil. Dice the onions. Peel and cut the carrots. Cook the meat down. He does it all methodically, tension draining from his shoulders with each slice of the knife through another vegetable, each stir of the wooden spoon through the meat. He drains the meat and sets it aside, picking up the last thing he needs to add to the gravy. 

“So that’s your secret ingredient.”

He smiles down at the small jar of marmite in his hand. 

“A bit of marmite in the gravy,” he says as he spoons it out of the jar and into the pan where the meat drippings are simmering into a thick gravy. “You remembered.”

Hannah smiles softly when he turns to look at her. “Of course I do.” She takes a large, sweeping step towards him. “You told me, didn’t you?”

Owen stirs it in slowly, looking back over his shoulder with each pass of his spoon. Hannah absently collects the vegetable trimmings into a pile. There’s a quiet that settles over them. The quiet that only comes with content, with knowing someone so fully that space doesn’t need to be filled with words to be understood. He lets his eyes close as he listens to the sound of the meet simmering and the pot boiling and Hannah behind him tidying up the mess he left behind. 

“I always thought you’d keep it a secret forever,” Hannah admits. “You were so adamant for so long.” She laughs softly. “Infuriating man.”

Owen lets the marmite simmer and turns off the potatoes. He can hear Hannah putting the colander in the sink for him, moving around him gracefully. They did this so easily, moving around each other like a dance. His heart aches. He spent so long doing this - keeping her close without giving away too much of himself, without giving her the truth. 

He drains the potatoes and takes the masher she put out for him on the counter. 

“Flora will be delighted,” he hears her say. “I think this might be her favorite as well.”

He smiles. “The Lady of Bly Manor is a tough critic, though I reckon she’d like anything with gravy and mash.”

“I think she likes everything you make her.” Hannah puts the kettle on. “Brew?”

“Thanks, love.” He feels her hands drift around across his shoulder and he resists the urge to turn to her and put down this food, to pull her close. Instead, he mashes until he likes what he sees and he layers the meat and the onions and the carrots before he tops them with the gravy and the potatoes and he slides it into the oven just as the kettle whistles on the stove. 

“Come,” she says softly, taking his hand. “Sit with me. We’ll clean up later.”

“Mrs. Grose.” He puts his hand to his chest. “Are you to tell me you’d let this mess just sit here? You, Hannah Grose? What would people think?”

She rolls her eyes affectionately. “Infuriating man,” she says again, pulling a chair closer to his as she sits down. 

They sit there, knees touching, as Owen searches for something to say. He doesn’t remember what comes next, his mind cloudy what he’s supposed to say with what he wants to. She smiles patiently at him, always so patient, and she waits.  _ Enough, _ he thinks.  _ I’ve waited enough. _

“I picked this one,” he says quietly. “This one right here.”

Hannah’s hand covers hers. “Owen...”

“It’s when I knew. It’s when I truly knew,” he continues. “Something simple. Something so simple as you standing here in the kitchen with me while I cooked. That’s when I knew.”

Hannah is still for a long moment until she takes his hand in both of hers, turning it over. Her thumbs stroke down over his palm carefully, like she tracing the lines across it. He read about it once, lifelines. It feels like she’s reading his whole life in just one touch, like she’s seeing his whole life stretched out before her. 

He wonders if she can see it, the life he lived without her. He wonders if she can see the loneliness that colored every moment she wasn’t a part of. 

“Owen,” she starts again.

He shakes his head, pushing on.  _ Enough _ . 

“You stood here the whole time, not saying a word, and I thought to myself, it felt so easy to be here.” He smiles. “You always made it feel so easy to be. To just  _ be _ .”

Hannah smiles back at him. “I liked to watch you cook. You were your happiest there.”

“I was my happiest with you.”

She’s quiet again for another moment. “You became as much a part of me as this house,” she finally says. “This great big house that I belonged to. I felt the same with you”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I always belonged to you. From this moment on, from this exact moment, I always…” He takes a deep breath, pushing back the burn behind his eyes. “Hannah, I love you.”

“Oh,  _ Owen _ ,” she sighs. 

“I wondered for years,” he presses on. “I wondered for so long. I thought- I  _ hoped _ . But I was too afraid to say it. To even wish it. For years after I couldn’t stand to look at myself in the mirror.”

Hannah’s hands turn in his, their fingers lacing together. He remembers this happening, once, at a fire long ago, their hands under a blanket and their legs pressed together. She could feel the heat against his face from the flames and the heat in her hand from hers. It kept him as warm as the wine. When Jamie tucked him into bed on the small couch in her flat, he held his hand close to his chest, falling asleep with the weight of Hannah’s hand in his. 

“I wondered what it would be like to have been in Paris with you,” he breathes. “To have shown you my restaurant. To see you there among the tables instead of your picture hanging on the wall. I dreamed of it every night.”

She presses her fingers to his chest. “I was there. I was there, right here.”

He covers her hand with his, keeping it close to his body. “It wasn’t enough, though, was it. It wasn’t the same. I wanted you  _ there _ .”

“I wanted to go,” she whispers. “I wanted to go to Paris with you.” There’s a ghost of something in her eyes. A  _ yes _ on her tongue he didn’t hear. “I slip into that night, the one when you asked. And I always say yes.”

“I wish I was there.” He feels his chest hitch with a breath he can’t exhale. “I wish I could hear you.”

“Dani-”

“Dani,” Hannah sighs. “Oh, Dani.”

“She told me, once. About what it felt like to be tucked away. Do you remember Flora saying it? How she didn’t want to be tucked away.” He leans forward, her hands in his. “She didn’t say this, though. She didn’t say you could find yourself in a memory with someone you’ve been dreaming of for years. I’ve been dreaming of you for years, Hannah.”

She lifts one hand, resting it against his cheek. “What a life we could have had.”

He lets the weight of her words settle in around him. What a life they could have had together if he had been brave. If he had asked her sooner, without the weight of his mother’s death on his shoulder. If he had told her sooner, without telling himself that tomorrow would be better, tomorrow would be best.  _ If, if, if _ .

“I picked this one,” he whispers. “So I could feel what it felt like to fall in love with you all over again.”

She rests her forehead against his, her nose against his cheek. “I loved you the same. And the rest-”

“The rest is memories,” he finishes. “Memories we can live in and love in. I want to stay here, in this memory, with you.” Sadness washes over him. “But I can’t, can I?”

“No,” Hannah admits. “We can never stay for too long. They’re just memories. Great, good memories. They come and they go like waves crashing on the shore. Each one is different, but it doesn’t stay for long.” She smiles and he feels it against his skin. “But water recycles. It comes back again. And you’ll find this memory once more. And I’ll find you in mine. We won’t be apart from each other for too long.”

Tears roll down his cheeks and she can feel her fingers brushing them away. “Am I in your memories?”

“Each one of them,” she whispers.

He nods, words breaking on his tongue. “You’ll be in all of mine,” he promises.

Her lips brush his gently. “Owen,” she breathes just as softly. “You have to go. You have to wake up. But you’ll be back. You’ll be back in this moment and in others and in mine.”

He straightens up, wiping at his face until she pulls his hand away and replaces it with her own. Her fingertips smooth away the tears and she cups his face in her hands, holding him steady for a moment. “You infuriating man,” she says affectionately. “What a life we could have had.”

He closes his eyes at her touch, feeling its warmth. “What a life we will,” he promises. “And the rest is-”

Owen washes the ingredients under cool water and lays them out above his cutting board. Onions, potatoes, carrots. He tests the weight of his knife in his hand. It feels familiar, like sinking into a pleasant memory. 

He gets to work. Peel the potatoes, cut them into quarters, put them in a pot to boil. Dice the onions. Peel and cut the carrots. Cook the meat down. He does it all methodically, tension draining from his shoulders with each slice of the knife through another vegetable, each stir of the wooden spoon through the meat. He drains the meat and sets it aside, picking up the last thing he needs to add to the gravy. 

“So that’s your secret ingredient.”

He smiles. “You remembered.” 


End file.
